Mirror Image
by devilishlysas
Summary: Sylar's uses his new shape shifting ability to force Claire to confront some unpleasant truth's. Angsty. Slight non-con.Set after Into Asylum.


Mirror Image

It was a strange sensation for Claire Bennet, feeling safe, normal even, but then she supposed it just highlighted the normal strangeness of her life; that sitting in an abandoned farm house, listening to the Petrelli's having a harshly whispered conversation in the kitchen, was almost normal. She sighed and flopped back on the bed, she didn't want to join the conversation, she agreed with Peter and to a certain extend Angela in principle, but it didn't change the fact that for once in his life Nathan had opened up to someone. To her of all people, she wasn't about to betray that trust, no matter how many times he seemed to have betrayed hers, she just wasn't built that way she assumed. So she remained silent and let them row about it, god knows they needed to talk to one another, it seemed all they ever usually did was let unresolved tensions build up between them. She was so focused on trying not to listen that she didn't hear the sounds of her own voice immediately. Claire stilled, her eyes widening, she tried to move, to sit up... nothing, so she tried to open her mouth... still nothing. A familiar chill swept through her, she was paralysed, as if every movement she tried to make was smothered; damn Eric Doyle, she'd helped him and this was her reward! But, as what was unmistakeably her voice, rang through the kitchen she redoubled her efforts, Doyle might have been good with puppets, but she was quite certain his skills didn't stretch to ventriloquism. Claire watched in helpless fascination as her hands moved quite beyond her own control, her chest rose off the bed and her feet pushed, until she dropped lightly to the floor without so much as a sound. Her body rolled her fist clasping around the fallen drapes to drag them with her, covering her in dust and god knows what else for the trouble. Claire fought with every ounce of her will, in an attempt to wrestle her hands back into her control, but it was next to useless, she watched as her one hand grasped the other and began tightly wrapping the curtain around it, securing it to the metal leg of the bed she was stashed beneath. She collapsed onto her back, trying desperately to open her mouth and scream. Her free hand slammed something filthy into her mouth and she gagged, as it was forced down her throat, before the hand stretched out to the other bed post. Claire lifted her head watching as the curtain rose as if on strings, until it had wrapped itself firmly around the offending wrist, securing her finally to the underside of the bed. Her head collapsed back against the hard wooden floor and she stifled the sob she wanted to realise, aware that crying now might just choke her to death... not something she relished waking up from. Listening intently to the sound of her own voice from the other room she allowed tears to leak down her cheeks, there was only one person she could think of that would do this to her, one person with the power, powers that seemed to have expanded as only his could. They were leaving, she could hear the voices going further away, taking the voice that was hers with it and leaving her trapped here. The bedroom door opened and she attempted to scrabble away, to see, but the pressure on her refused to lessen, all she could make out were feet, leather loafers with suit pants; Nathan's. Had he heard her? The feet hovered in the doorway for a few seconds before they retreated and the door closed.

"_NO!" _Claire screamed it inside of her head, putting as much of her will power behind the statement as she could manage as her father left her to what she feared would be a monsters whim. But her will was never enough; she'd never been able to expel Doyle's compulsions, or Sylar's manipulations, even Peter's. She couldn't now and so she remained silent as her newly reformed biological family flew away leaving her behind in their family's old home.

Claire felt the exact moment that the influence left her body, the moment her hands came back under her own control, she screeched behind the gag, nothing but a strangled sound making it out as she flailed with her legs, trying to make as much noise as possible. But no one came; the farm house was abandoned, burnt out in places, dilapidated and utterly empty, isolated for miles all around. No one would hear her screaming, even if she could. Frustration and anger overtook her fear now that her body was once more her own, she smacked her head against the floorboards with, wishing she could feel the sharp pain as her head connected with a dull thud. Experimentally she tugged at the material around her wrists, but it was coarse and heavy, looped through her wrist expertly, she arched her back trying to get a better look at it as she craned her neck. For a moment she gave serious consideration to chewing her own arm off, it wasn't like it would hurt, hell it would grow back, she even moved her head closer before she realised she couldn't get the rag out of her mouth, which meant she couldn't get to her teeth. It was stuffed so far down her mouth into her throat that breathing through her nose was only about half as effective as it should have been and she started to feel light headed. Dully she realised that even if she could free her mouth, her arms were pulled almost taught spanning the width of the double bed; she'd never be able to reach anyway, even if she could, her healing ability wouldn't let her get more than a few chunks in before undoing her progress. It was a sobering thought and she closed her eyes, fighting the sob that rose again.

He'd considered all this... Sylar, she knew it was him, felt it deep in her gut, he wasn't dead, not by half, and it seemed he was back to punish her for the glass incident. The thought was oddly comforting, Sylar terrifying though he was, was at least a known concept, she understood what it meant, the reasons behind it, the unknown was always so much worse, but Sylar had been a part of her life for so long now that it was easier to accept. Claire began to run over the incident in her mind, having nothing much else to do, he'd come back for her, she was fairly certain of that, even if it was just to gloat, before he left her like this permanently. Would she die? Dehydration would kill her most likely within a few days, she'd never get the chance to starve to death, which was at least mildly comforting... not that she could still feel hunger pains. It was something she'd never tried, dehydration, it seemed such a tame thing to try, but it would be just as effective, even if she lasted longer than the average person. But would she die? Would she keep dying only to wake up again regenerated? Or would her body fall into some sort of coma-like state, a balance between death and regeneration, neither gaining ground? Perhaps she'd simply die, her body would decompose, fall away, would she be forced to wake from that nightmare too when someone found her? No doubt she'd be ID'd her family would try to resuscitate her, start her ability back up. She closed her eyes, not wanting to dwell on it. Death hadn't been something she'd considered in some time, more the absence of it had been what plagued her, ever since she'd learnt about Adam from Angela. Being built to withstand forever, didn't make you ready for it.

The light dimmed, a whole day lost to her, she stared at the encroaching darkness of the shadows in the room with growing unease. He hadn't returned, no one had, the fake Claire that he'd spoken to them with was clearly still playing nice. Would they ever realise she wasn't there? Angela might she considered, if she had one of her dreams... 'if'. It was just another reason to curse the loss of Peter's old ability, he'd have never been fooled, been able to rip the information from his mind, realise it wasn't her from the start. But as he was now, he would hold onto flight, in their new lives as fugitives it was practically a get out of jail free card. Flight wouldn't free her.

She must have slept she realised when she cracked open a bleary eye, to see that the shadows had retreated, and soft sunlight was beginning to filter through the window to reach the floor she could see. With renewed effort she tugged violently at the bindings, until blood slicked her hands and she began to lose feeling in her fingers, she cursed and kicked the underside of the bed violently with her unbound legs. The material had just gotten tighter with her struggles; all she had succeeded in doing was making her hands all but useless as circulation left them. It seemed ridiculous to her, she was supposed to be indestructible, un-killable, invincible, yet here she was tied to bed posts and utterly useless. Her ability was all well and good, but once someone got a hold of her, there wasn't a fat lot she could do about it. Not for the first time she wished her ability was more mundane, offensive, Elle's electricity would have made short work off the material, probably the post too, granted she'd have probably brought the whole house down in flames, but still she'd have gotten loose. Meredith's ability would have brought a similar response no doubt; then there was Tracy's ice, she could have shattered her way out of here, her mind replayed every amazing ability she had seen, cursing how almost all of them might have been more useful than her own. Teleportation, phasing, super strength, telekinesis, hell even telepathy might have gotten her distance on a cry for help; super speed might have succeeded in wearing away the fabric if she withstood the chafing... but no. Anger flashed through her, the only way she could have been more useless was if she could breathe under water; smirking and instantly regretting it she tried not to let her despair get the best of her, it never brought out her finest qualities.

The day past with agonising slowness and her head lolled, the dryness in her mouth became evident; her hands had long past the blue stage, she spared them a glance before the last of the light faded, they were white bloodless... dead she assumed; she tried moving her fingers, nothing happened, it was like a bad case of pins and needles, that numbness before the sensation, like the limb was disconnected. Looking away she focused instead on simply breathing in and out, it had taken her the extent of the day, but she'd managed to work the rag out of her mouth, it lay beside her head, mocking her; losing it hadn't gained her a damn thing. Her arms were too far away to reach with her mouth if she wanted to entertain the idea of chewing through them again, screaming hadn't helped either, it had only if anything increased her need for water until her voice became hoarse and she wisely decided to stop. It was a small blessing she assumed that she couldn't feel pain, she imagined her hands would have hurt before they slipped away, that her throat would be burning; her arms aching pinned as they were in such a taut position. But at least the pain would have been something; could have kept her grounded, fighting, all she felt was boredom, absolute and crushing. The fear of what would happen to her began to dull, spreading into the desire for anything to happen.

The night passed into day again and she could hear her stomach gurgling as it attempted to digest itself, she hadn't eaten properly in Mexico, and although she'd drunk, it hadn't been the hydrating kind of drink, she was paying for it now. Her body was protesting, quietly, but still; her eyes felt heavy, and her eyesight was beginning to become grainy, she felt like there was grit in it. She dosed through the day, until the sun set and darkness crept over her again. But she was never cold, another blessing of her biology, she watched fascinated as her breath misted in the cool country air, blasted through the glassless windows. By the following morning she'd lost all feeling in her arms, whatever had sustained them until now seemed to pass, the strange creeping numbness and blue colour spreading through them, just as it had her hands, she couldn't even feel them to tug at the restraints any longer. It was a terrible way to die she decided. Of all of the injuries and near deaths she'd suffered, she thought it was quite probably the worst... for her at least. It was slow and painless, but agonising in its own way, it reminded her with increasing clarity of just how un-normal she was. Every day that passed, her wretched body refused to fail, refused to submit to even the smallest feeling of discomfort; it was a state of non-existence, which was almost worse than death, because she was aware of every moment of it.

Only Sylar could have conceived of this; how to kill an indestructible girl... how to make someone that couldn't feel pain suffer. Bitterness crept deep inside of her as she closed her eyes against the bright light of another day, her eyes closed so easily now. No one would come for her, no one knew she was gone she realised. Scattered as they were, powers thinned, out of communication, anyone that might have once seen what was happening to her was either dead, captured, or in hiding. What she would have given to have someone declare _'Save the Cheerleader!'_ But the light faded and darkness crept over once again, another day lost to her; another day her death crept closer with agonising slowness. Two days ago she'd found the energy to raise her head and slam it down into the hard wood floor, it had succeeded in knocking her out briefly, before she'd healed but that was it, blood had pooled beneath her, matting her hair with a sticky mess that was beginning to stink; adding to the stench of the waste she'd lost on the second day, and not since. Claire stopped being sure she wanted someone to rescue her, because they would have to see her like this, helpless, stripped of dignity, an object of pity. If by some miracle she survived this, she wasn't sure she'd ever be quite the same, to be slapped quite so harshly with your own inner freak wasn't a settling experience.

But the sun rose again and a primal scream tore from her dry lips, it was the only outward sign she could make out, that her infallible body was wilting, they were chapped dry and bleeding lightly, she could taste it metallic in the back of her mouth. The sound of her own voice, broken as it was cheered her somewhat, "_SYLAR!" _she screamed imbuing that one word with all the rage and desperation her small frame would let her, before she slumped, eyes closing. Opening her eyes had become a struggle, gone were the early days where she had the energy to attempt to wrench her own arms from their sockets, sadly she had never quite found leverage enough for it, had he restrained her feet she might have managed it, but they slipped over the wooden surface as she pulled, with nothing to brace against. He understood her... understood the limits of her body, the mechanics of this sick prison; the realisation made her hate for him fester inside her chest, poisoning her, until all she could think about was him. Hurting him, killing him, slowly torturously, just like he was doing to her. In all the time she'd spent now in her simple prison, she'd never once reconsidered the identity of her jailer; no one else hated her quite like Sylar did.

_4 days later_

Perhaps it was delirium, maybe she had gone mad... she blinked but the image didn't fade, her own face stared back at her. Claire stared at the body that she recognised completely as it lay on the floor, its head turned to stare at her, arms wide in an almost grotesque parody of her own, but the smirk... the smirk wasn't something that belonged on her face. Anger flickered inside of her chest, but it was too weak to make its way through her half dead body; it barely kept her conscious. The body that looked like her waved its hand, her hands dropped with a heavy sound onto the hard wood floor, finally freed, but they stayed there, she couldn't feel them at all. The hand waved again the body not moving from its position on the floor beside her, mocking, as the bed flew upwards until it was on its end against the wall to the side of her. She flinched, or at least she did inside, her body didn't even twitch, she felt utterly disconnected from it. The body that looked like her rolled to the side of her, propping itself up on an elbow to study her face; Claire couldn't even manage to turn her head as her own hand stroked across her face, the tip of one painted nail brushing over her desiccated lips. It was a strange feeling, to hate yourself so violently, to hate what you were, and then to have your own face placed in front of you as an outlet for it. The soft features made her unresponsive body want to rage, to slash at every inch of exposed golden skin, to tear it away piece by piece to reveal the hollow thing within. The cold dead heart that refused to miss a beat. The golden hair reflecting in the sunlight made her hatred deepen, she was soft, weak, golden, flawless... a parody.

The parody raised its hand again and water splashed over her face, she blinked, her mouth opened almost reflexively, and the liquid fell down her throat. She swallowed greedily, her mouth open hopeful even after the liquid stopped falling. The parody's hand brushed her jaw, closing her mouth.

"Have you learnt your lesson Claire?" the words drifted to her ear, her own voice but not her words. She cracked open an eye, but saw only the parody of herself and closed them again. The meagre liquid hadn't been enough to bring back her voice.

"Do you understand now what you are?" small hands brushed over her stomach, across her arms, too soft and light.

"Special." Her voice wrapped around the word, as it was breathed against her ear, softly enough that she could almost imagine a caress from it.

"You can never die." The same words, different voice, her voice.

"You body is a prison, a gilded cage." The words made her shudder; dimly she became aware that she could wiggle her fingers. "A cell that will never crumble with time, never release you from your pain, never let you go."

"An eternity locked away, painless, unfeeling... a living, breathing statue." The words sunk deep into her bones and had she the moisture to spare, she was sure she would have felt tears slipping down her cheeks.

Slowly turning her head, with what seemed like momentous effort she met shining green eyes, with her own dull ones. "I hate you." The smirk returned to the parody of a face and she had to turn away; because she wasn't sure who she was talking to, herself or the thing wearing her face.

"Do you know how you're going to survive this eternal prison?" the parody's hands cupped her face, turning her weakly resisting body back to meet those damn eyes again. Dimly she thought she saw where this was going, but her mind was thin, stretched, tired; she couldn't complete the thought.

"A cell mate." Soft, lipstick covered lips pressed against hers and she clenched her eyes shut firmly, hating that the familiar strawberry scent was invading her nose now. Their perfectly matched lips parted and she felt water slide into her mouth once more, she opened her eyes to see the water bottle dripping above her head, desperately she opened her mouth, the feel of moisture on her tongue bringing it back from the dry husk it had become was pure ecstasy.

"Everyone you love will turn to dust, crumble, fade into history. But you'll never be alone." The steady stream of water stopped and soft strawberry lips pressed against hers, small firm unblemished hands holding her down.

"We're the same Claire." The lips stopped long enough to tell her again what she'd been told for the past year, opening her eyes she saw only herself, and considered for the first time the truth in that statement. They were different in every way that should have mattered, but ultimately didn't; in the end, only one thing would matter...they would both still be alive, reflecting each other, like twisted mirror images, right to the bitter end.


End file.
